


À la rencontre de l'aube

by kaithartic (bluedreaming), tinybitsoflight (bluedreaming), waveslikebones (bluedreaming)



Category: EXO (Band), SHINee
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedreaming/pseuds/kaithartic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedreaming/pseuds/tinybitsoflight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedreaming/pseuds/waveslikebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warnings: repeated major character death, slight suicide themes</p>
            </blockquote>





	À la rencontre de l'aube

**Author's Note:**

> Originally for the [immortaolize](http://immortaolize.livejournal.com/) exchange.
> 
> First of all, thanks so much to the mods for being so understanding in the light of health issues. Secondly, thanks so much to my recipient for the fabulous prompts, especially for being so kind as to send extra ones. Thank you thank you thank you for the opportunity to write such an interesting pairing and I'm really sorry if I didn't get it quite right. A huge thanks to A and E for help with Jonghyun; my mistakes are entirely my own. A gigantic thanks to A for being the best beta anyone could ever wish for and for literally holding my hand at the 11th hour. Thank you to tlist for being there for me always, and my heart to a certain someone who kept picking me up on that long night in November when all I wanted was to be allowed to fall down.

  


ready

Zitao hates Mondays. Jonghyun has to go to the university instead of staying in bed, his shoulder a pillow for Zitao's head, legs exactly right to be wrapped around, heartbeat a soothing rhythm to drive away the cold dark. When Zitao wakes up hours later, because his classes are all late — no real people get out of bed at six o'clock for any reason except impending death, his boyfriend included — the other side of the bed is cold and goosebumps rise on his skin as he groans and rolls himself out of bed with a hollow thump. The sun is shining in through a crack in the blinds and, from where he lands, spread-eagled on the floor, the line of light splitting the shadows also cuts through his blurry vision, slicing a headache into his brain. _Shit._ Zitao hates mornings, and Mondays, and definitely the sun daring to shine at an ungodly hour of eight o'clock in the morning.

He drags himself up off the floor by walking his hands up the wooden pegs handles of the dresser; on the second drawer from the top his left hand catches the wrong way and a mysterious splinter somehow embeds itself in his palm. No one is within earshot: he shrieks and swears and cradles his hand between his knees, head resting against the cool floor. _Please go back to bed._ But he can't, of course — lecture at 9 o'clock sharp and Mr. Zombie-Professor doesn't accept "my bus was late" as an excuse.

Luckily there's hot chocolate in a thermos that Jonghyun made for him before leaving - Zitao always complains he's not a baby but he always drinks it all anyway and carefully rinses the thermos out before setting it upside down to dry. Two slices of bread waiting in the toaster; he pushes down the lever and sinks onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, face cradled on the kitchen chair cushion, drifting in a quiet grey buzz until — POP — the two slices of toast jump up with the loud chime of an anologue bell. Zitao raises his head in sleepy alarm and his forehead connects with the edge of the table. "Ouch!" Squinting from the light and the pain, he drags himself up to sit at the table.

The nutella jar slips through his fingers and smashes on the floor, glass and chocolate everywhere; he sighs and plants his face into the wood texture of the table. _I hate Mondays._

It takes him ten minutes too long to clean up the mess; he's complaining but he doesn't want to leave it for Jonghyun who would probably tidy it up without saying anything but that's mean and Zitao knows it. He reminds himself of this as he cuts his finger on a hidden piece of glass and bleeds all over the floor and down the hallway to the bathroom medicine cabinet to get a bandaid; footsteps smearing the white tiles red as he dumps hydrogen peroxide over the cut and winces. By the time he finally leaves the house, hungry but not caring anymore about little things like actually eating breakfast, he's officially an hour late. He might as well skip his first class because Mr. Zombie-Professor marks tardies and absents and he doesn't give a flying fuck anymore anyway.

The tram is full and he trips and gets glared at and Jonghyun hasn't texted him even once yet this morning. Zitao can feel the beginning of angry tears beading in the corners of his eyes and frustratedly dashes them away with the back of his hand, only noticing now that he forgot to put in his contact lenses this morning in the chaos. Glasses it is. He sighs and fishes them out of his bag.

His second class is another departmental requirement: advanced statistics and he spends the entire time glaring at the student sitting one row down and two seats over who is wearing a sweater in a criminally obnoxious shade of vermillion. It's worsening his headache to add to his day's miseries.

Things start to turn around slowly in the afternoon; Jonghyun has finally texted him: _11:59_ "I'm sorry I didn't text earlier — there was a situation at the counselling centre. Do you want to meet outside the Arts complex after you get out of class? Love you  ♡" and Zitao can't help but smile and hold his phone to his chest. Jonghyun makes everything better.

He's just rushing out of the classroom, down the concrete steps shaded by the cherry trees that are promising to bloom any moment now; he can see Jonghyun waving as he crosses the wide boulevard and —

all of a sudden there are too many things happening at once and it seems like time slows down except it doesn't, everything just engraves itself onto his brain in painful scarlet gouges of the pen —

Jonghyun's smile. The sun reflecting off his white-blond hair. The truck careening down the road, driver shouting a warning. His heart bursting out of his chest as he starts to run. The horrible sound as skin and bone meet metal.

Silence.

In the moment before his heart breaks, one thought flashes through his head — _I don't hate Mondays. Mondays hate me._

And then his world falls to pieces around him.

and

He doesn't know how it happens, what happens, he's crying on the concrete, cradling Jonghyun's broken body in his arms and there's nothing there and everything is broken and red and terrible and there are sirens and flashing lights and hands pulling him away and he refuses to let go. Except they pull him away anyway, kicking and screaming and crying and his glasses fall off and he can hear the crunch as they're trampled under someone's uncaring foot and _Jonghyun is dead._ He's dead and he's never coming back and Zitao doesn't think he can accept this reality, in fact he's not going to.

But the sad thing about reality is that it's real, whether you accept it or not.

Unless.

ten

The bed is cold when he wakes up. The ice creeps up his skin and encases his heart when he remembers _the world is over_. It's Tuesday but it feels like the worst Monday he's ever woken up to.

It will be Monday forever.

He flips over onto his pillow as the despair crawls up his throat and screams his pain into the cloth and feathers. _Maybe if I don't move I can smother myself here in the dark and I'll never have to face a life without him._

He groans as he finally flips himself out of bed, the ground hard as he lands heavily, the carpet rough as it rubs a soft spot on his elbow. He doesn't want to open his eyes but there's a line of fire streaming out from a crack in the curtains and it's tearing his head apart — he crawls over to the dresser to drag himself up the wooden peg handles, the one second from the top catching his left hand and leaving the dubious gift of an angry wood sliver embedded in his palm. _Again._ It's too much. Zitao finds himself furiously raining blows on the poor innocent wood with his throbbing hand, trying to get rid of even a small part of the pain, but instead it only grows and twists its way from his heart up and out, spiralling around his limbs like a kind of sick ivy; leaves black and dripping crimson onto the floor.

By the time he makes it to the kitchen he just wants to go back to bed except he doesn't. Because the bed is cold and empty and it will be empty forever. He wants to scream but there's no one to scream at. _There will never be anyone to scream at._

He looks at the thermos that was always filled with hot chocolate — it's not where he remembers leaving it yesterday, rinsed and upside down to dry... _whatever_...he can't think about hot chocolate right now. In fact, he doesn't want to eat anything. He makes it to the front door before he sees Jonghyun's dumb red-and-blue-spotted umbrella; for some reason the ordinariness of it, the fact that his boyfriend will never grin at him, walking backwards out the door, one hand on the door handle and the other absentmindedly searching for the handle of the umbrella as the rainy day opens out behind him — Zitao's stomach twists and all of a sudden he's on the floor, sobbing.

By the time he finally scrapes himself off the floor he's officially an hour late but he doesn't give a flying fuck. Mr. Zombie Professor can go fuck himself. He wouldn't go to school at all but Zitao can't bear the thought of the empty house right now; where each and every dust mote carries a tiny piece of Jonghyun's DNA.

The tram is full but he elbows his way into a seat and spends the ride trying not to think of anything at all, but his mind is so full of Jonghyun that as soon as he puts a tiny piece away ten more seep out to take their place. Water leaks out of his eyes, head leaning back against the cold glass of the window; he lets the sadness trickle down his face for a few minutes before tiredly mopping it away with the back of a slightly trembling hand. _No contacts._ Zitao's already fumbling though his bag before he remembers yesterday — "crunch" — but his fingers catch on a plastic frame and — he pulls out his glasses, completely unbent.

Maybe he'd been mistaken?

Whatever.

His second class is still advanced statistics and he still hates it and why are they going over the exact same stuff as yesterday? And that damned student is still wearing that puke-worthy shade of vermillion. He's almost tempted to get up and strangle them. His fingers are clenching and unclenching, the girl beside him eyeing him with a worried expression, when his phone buzzes. He ignores it — _I don't want to talk to anyone right now except the one person I will never be able to talk to again._ And then, eye travelling idly over the contents of his bag visible from his desk, he sees that it —

_crash_

There's a mad dash and Zitao drops the phone, it goes sliding and clatters under the seat in front of him but doesn't care; fingers searching desperately under the seat until he finds it — the message is from — "Jonghyun?"

He's so shocked surprised exploded numbed overjoyed that he says the name out loud; the soft letters slipping over his lips like a prayer.

Until he notices the timestamp.

_11:59_

He throws the phone at the white board and leaves the room before he kills someone.

But it's during his last class that the thing that's been bothering him all day finally materializes into a cohesive issue. The sliver. The text. The fact that all his classes are suddenly feeling the need to review material even though it's not exam time yet.

_What if?_

He mentally kicks himself for even daring to think it but he can't get the thought out of his head; before he knows it he's stuffing everything haphazardly into his bag and taking the steps by twos and threes because he can't wait for the elevator.

 _Maybe yesterday was just a dream_ his feet seem to be telling him as they slam _one, two, one, two_ against the concrete; maybe it's Tuesday, one day closer to the weekend, Jonghyun busy as usual and no red on cement, no squealing of rubber on —

He bursts out the front door, the heavy plate-glass swinging back heavily behind him; the cherry trees still aren't blooming — a distant afterthought as he throws himself down the steps to the street and —

there he is. White-blond hair shining in the sun, the glow halo-like in the afternoon warmth. He hasn't seen Zitao yet, but just as he opens his mouth to call —

there's the sound of brakes groaning and the shrieking, of metal gears grinding as _that truck_ careens around the corner; Zitao's mouth opens in a desperate scream, Jonghyun looks up to see him and smiles, waving gently, the truck overpowers his small figure and —

there's only screaming as Zitao watches his world crumble for the second time. As he realizes it's still Monday.

nine

He wakes up and the bed is cold; his hand fumbling through empty sheets for a familiar body that isn't there.

He's alone.

He doesn't want to but there's a sense of urgency he can't quite place; he rolls out of bed to land on the floor with a painful thump. From where he's lying on the rough carpet, the crack in the blinds he was too sloppy to pull properly closed yesterday tears a streak of sunlight through the tender morning mush of his brain, a migraine following in its wake.

_Sunlight._

He crawls over to the dresser with a groan, pulling himself up slowly, hands grasping the wooden peg handles; his left hand catches on the grain at the handle second from the top and absorbs a huge wood sliver in the palm.

_Sliver_

He feels hazy, indistinct. Today is a new morning but he feels like he's lived it before, a kind of blurry déjà-vu as he sleepwalks into the kitchen, hand grabbing the thermos of hot chocolate and pouring a cup of the fragrant miracle that it is before he remembers _this isn't supposed to be here. Jonghyun is dead._

And then he runs to the calendar and it's still Monday.

The date hits him like a bucket of ice water to the face; all of a sudden time is moving too fast and he's out the front door, heavy wood slamming shut behind him before the thermos lands on the tiles of the kitchen floor with a hollow metal clang, liquid gushing out like an artery steadily losing its pulse.

The tram is eighteen minutes away so he runs instead, slippers flapping against his heels until he gives up and kicks them off, soles scraping the concrete but what's a little discomfort in the big scheme of things because _it's Monday_.

He remembers — _is it remembering if it hasn't happened yet?_ — Jonghyun texting something about a counselling centre but he's not sure about the timing; he heads there anyway but promises himself that there's still time.

 _There's still time to fix this._ His feet hit the concrete, tiny bits of skin rubbing off and being left behind as if to mark his passing.

The counselling centre isn't open yet, _of course it isn't_ ; he collapses onto one of the benches in the hallway, head slammed back against the rough wall just enough to jar his brain. His feet are bleeding.

 _Where is he? Where is he?_ He wants to know but he forgot his phone so he doesn't dare move and if this is the wrong place....

And then a familiar white-blond head is turning the corner and Zitao can't help himself even though he knows it doesn't make any sense; he launches himself at the older man, face buried in his collarbone, fingers knotted in the fabric of his shirt.

"Zitao?" Jonghyun is laughing, fingers running through Zitao's hair and just that gently yet longed for touch is enough to make him burst into tears.

"Zitao?" The name is spoken in worried tones now, Jonghyun trying to pull back enough to be able to examine his boyfriend's face. But Zitao doesn't want to let go, only reluctantly letting himself be pried away gently to sit beside Jonghyun on the bench. Zitao's so close that he's pretty much sitting in Jonghyun's lap, black-haired head resting on his shoulder so that the white and black mix to make the most beautiful shade of grey.

Zitao's just opening his mouth to say — _what? what can I possibly say?_ He shakes his head instead and mumbles into the smooth texture of the cloth but Jonghyun hears it anyway and smiles indulgently.

"I really missed you."

He can't explain why he needs to spend the morning stuck to his boyfriend like glue, shadowing Jonghyun's every move, even to the washroom, but Jonghyun only takes it in stride.

"Are you going to tell me what this is about?" he's sitting at his desk, trying to type, or rather, trying to sit at his desk while Zitao is trying to sit on his lap; no one is happy with the results.

Zitao shakes his head. _Not over my dead body._

But by afternoon even he's getting a little bit tired: Jonghyun is so warm and real and maybe it was just a dream.

Jonghyun announces that he's just going to run and grab a coffee because he really wants one and — "do you want some hot chocolate?" Zitao nods, a smile blooming on his face.

It should be safe enough; it's just the cafeteria.

It's not until Jonghyun's been gone for fifteen minutes that Zitao remembers he doesn't like the cafeteria hot chocolate, insisting that the small coffee shop across the street from the campus is much better.

_Across the street._

Zitao's legs are running before his brain can catch up only to arrive for - _screeech!_ — metal and rubber and smoke and red and Jonghyun's body hits the ground.

Again.

Zitao screams and he doesn't stop until cold hands stick a needle into his arm and even then he's still screaming; it's just that no one can hear it.

eight

He wakes up screaming and he doesn't know why, rolling over the cold sheets of a half-empty bed to hit the floor with a bone-rattling thud, sun cutting through the fog of sound and thought as the crack in the curtains falls directly over one eye.

_Jonghyun_

A icy chills falls over him but instead of panicked this time he's determined. _If he's not there he can't get run over by the truck, right?_

Zitao systematically picks himself up off the floor and eats a calm breakfast, nutella back in the cupboard where it belongs when he's done, toaster power cord neatly twisted up and tucked under the counter.

The tram is full but he stands near the door, Mr. Zombie-Professor seems surprised to see him in class on a Monday morning but Zitao only glares and takes notes. The student in Advanced Statistics is still wearing vermillion but Zitao doesn't even bat an eyelash.

He skips his last class to head Jonghyun off — "I'll go for the coffee okay?" he says after indulging in a massive hug; luckily Jonghyun is used to his sudden bursts of affection and sees nothing amiss.

The buds on the trees are still waiting for spring's cue as Zitao steps across the street, carefully looking both ways on his quest; it's only as he's returning with the coffee in one hand and the hot chocolate in the other that he sees Jonghyun waving at him from across the street, wide grin on his face as he pretends to smell the aroma of the coffee in an exaggerated action, eyes shut in pretend ecstasy as he walks across the road and that's when Zitao sees the truck.

Coffee and hot chocolate arc out as two paper cups fly up into the air, fountains of rusty brown to stain the blue and clouds of the sky as Zitao runs as if through thick heavy syrup instead of air because he knows he's not going to make it in time and yet he has to try.

The sky is stained a different colour as the truck skids to a halt and crashes into a telephone pole, Zitao cradling a body that was all too alive only seconds before.

seven

He wakes up on Monday. This time he kidnaps Jonghyun from his office, dragging him away for a day at the park; picnic lunch and sandwiches and roasted chestnuts from the vendor even though that's a fall thing but who cares, Jonghyun's hand is warm in his and Zitao looks at his smile and his heart cracks a little but he still hopes. _This time I'll get it right._

This time the smile won't be leaking red onto the concrete.

Except Jonghyun forgets his phone at the office and they're just stopping by to grab it before heading home when Zitao lets go of his boyfriend's hand for one moment and —

Then there's just the pool of red growing on the grey road as Zitao kneels with the broken shell of his entire world falling apart in his hands —

six

He wakes up. It's Monday. He buries his face in the cold sheets for a moment, taking a deep comforting breath to stop himself from trembling as he sits on the edge of the bed and tries not to throw up.

And when he's crying on the road, hot tears falling onto Jonghyun's pale face, he thinks about those cold sheets and the scarlet they're hiding.

Just before he empties his stomach onto the sidewalk.

five

It's Monday.

The day Zitao's boyfriend dies.

And Zitao can't do anything about it.

"There's something wrong with you and I'm worried." Jonghyun is looking at him strangely, his brow furrowed with concern; Zitao ducks his head away and tries to think of another way to keep his boyfriend from dying.

The trees are only brown and colourless still when he kneels beside Jonghyun on the road and smoothes the wrinkles out of his forehead before tilting his head up at the sky. It's not raining but his face is still wet; puddles pooling in the deep hollows of eye bags so dark they look like bruises.

four

It's still Monday. Jonghyun is looking at him strangely out of the corner of his eye, mouth opening slightly and always on the verge of saying — _let me find a way to save you. you can ask afterwards_ except there is no afterwards.

Zitao fails again.

And again.

And again.

Jonghyun's lips are slightly parted and Zitao wishes he could hear what he was going to say.

_Next time._

_When I get it right._

But tomorrow never comes.

three

It's Monday.

He throws the nutella across the room where it collides with the kitchen window, shards of glass flying everywhere as Zitao leaves the house and doesn't look back.

"Zitao, you have to tell me what's wrong!" Jonghyun is frustrated and angry, cornering Zitao in the hallway outside the office as he comes up with coffee and hot chocolate; they slip out of his tired fingers to explode in a rusty brown pool on the white linoleum. Zitao only ducks under Jonghyun's arm and goes to fetch a mop.

Jonghyun's arms hang limply on the ground from where Zitao is cradling his heavy body; tiny rivulets of scarlet trickling down from the elbow to drop softly onto the concrete. Zitao doesn't think about hot chocolate or coffee, flooding the floor of the corridor. He doesn't think about linoleum the colour of bone.

_I can fix this._

two

It's Monday when he finally realizes it. _What if I get hit by the truck instead?_

As he steps out into the road, a cold breeze still lingering from winter ruffles cold fingers through his hair; he isn't afraid.

He's so tired.

He's not expecting to hear Jonghyun's panicked shouting, "Zitao! What the fuck are you doing?" and the screeching of brakes and the terrible sound of metal colliding with the flesh and bone of a body that isn't his as he's flying backwards to hit the sidewalk with an excruciating thud; eyes flying to see —

Jonghyun, lying in a pool of red, his white-blond hair tinged pink against the grey, eyelashes fluttering in the breeze.

Zitao screams until his throat is raw, but Jonghyun still doesn't wake up.

one

It's Monday and it will be Monday forever.

Jonghyun pushes him down onto the sofa in his office and makes him talk.

"What is going on?" He's not shouting but he's worried and annoyed and confused and it's all written plainly on his face.

Zitao takes a deep breath. It rattles in his throat. He's lost a lot of weight somehow, in between these infernal Mondays. Every time Jonghyun dies, another piece of him goes with it, and by now he's not sure if there's anything of him left at all.

"You die on Monday," he begins.

By the time he's done his voice is hoarse and he breaks into a bout of coughing. There's red on the back of his hand, which he hides by smearing it over the fabric of his pants.

Jonghyun looks like he believes him, even though he doesn't want to. Zitao asks for a hug with his eyes, and gets one without hesitation. As he breathes, wrapped in the safe warmth of his boyfriend's arms, he thinks _I have to keep this safe no matter what I have to do._

So he isn't ready for Jonghyun's whisper in his ear. "You have to let me go."

"No!" Zitao pulls away to look at Jonghyun in horror. "How can you even say that?" He's exhausted and weak and his mind is fuzzy but the thought of giving up drives a cold spear through his heart. _Never._

Jonghyun leans forward to rest his forehead on Zitao's cold cheek. "Sometimes it's just our turn to go." His voice is quiet but determined. Zitao wants to argue but the older man silences him with his mouth, lips meeting, warm breath ghosting across the other's face.

There's a goodbye in the corners of Jonghyun's mouth, in the dips behind his teeth, in the ridges of his palate and the soft skin on the inside of his cheek. Zitao doesn't know he's crying until Jonghyun smoothes the tears away afterwards with his thumbs. _I don't want to say goodbye._ But he does, over and over again, fingers dancing over the soft skin behind Jonghyun's ears and lingering on the fragile collarbones; Jonghyun running warm hands up over the too-protruding bumps of his ribs and nuzzling the softness of his stomach. _Everything is too vulnerable after you've seen it broken._ They come together and fall apart and Zitao still isn't ready to let go but he never will be.

Jonghyun goes to get coffee even though he knows he won't make it back. Zitao sits in the office, ignoring the clothes strewn everywhere and the fact that he's wearing Jonghyun's spare shirt, _it still smells like him_ , he takes a deep breath and gets up.

The trees are still waiting for spring to come so they can bloom. The wind is still cold, the sky is still blue. It's still Monday.

Zitao walks slowly down the staircase, out the front door, down the concrete steps. He's so used to running that it's strange, almost painful to let his feet rest for a split second on the ground before lifting off again.

And there's Jonghyun, smiling, drinks in one hand waving with the other.

And there's the truck, turning the corner, rubber screaming.

And Jonghyun stepping out into the road.

And the truck swerving.

And the machine and the person meeting.

zero

And then time stops.

At first Zitao thinks he's dreaming, waiting for the crash that doesn't come. And then he looks around and sees the entire world in suspended motion, the robin in mid-flight from the nest, the woman selling flowers on the corner bending to pick up an errant baby's breath, the students frozen as they walk down the path between the trees.

Jonghyun and the truck are frozen, millimetres apart.

In the silence, in the void, Zitao steps forward, footsteps echoing loudly in the stillness. Gently, softly, as if in a dream, he takes his boyfriend by the hand and pulls him away to safety, pausing only to adjust the steering wheel of the driver so that he won't hit the telephone pole.

And as they reach the sidewalk, time rushing back in to fill the emptiness with a loud screech of brakes and the smell of burning rubber and the startled exclamation of a driver who's just avoided killing a pedestrian, Zitao rests his head on Jonghyun's shoulder. His head fits perfectly in the space there.

Overhead, the cherry blossoms are finally painting the dark branches with spring. Tomorrow it will be Tuesday.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from a French translation of [Crimson Skies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZsRTJB-fmCE).  
> Aube is the moment right before dawn; rencontre is to meet.


End file.
